


Nothing of value

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Backstory, Gen, M/M, Religious Discussion, Unexpected Visitors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:13:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1891749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his way to see the shepherds, the Bishop shares his meal with a stranger, learns something unexpected, and plays a game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing of value

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voksen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/gifts).



> Thank you so much to Pliny for discussion and encouragement, and to Stripy for the beta.

If you follow the trail that leads north from Chastelar where it winds between light-grey rocks and wind-blown grass, you will come upon a point where the trail, having eased its way through a narrow pass, suddenly opens up, widening, and you are standing on a small plain where the valley spreads out before your gaze, green and lush, hidden between the mountains like a streak of gold buried in granite. Here wanderers have stopped for decades, if not centuries, to rest for the night, their bodies weary from the steep ascent behind them, the valley beyond a soothing sight to their tired eyes.

Here, too, came Bishop Myriel, or Monseigneur Bienvenu as he was often called, one night in June when he was on his way to see the shepherds in the mountains, as has been told elsewhere by a writer of far more renown. The only company he had brought with him was his mule and a young boy who served as his guide for the first part of the journey. The boy had returned home days ago and the mule had several times, so it seemed to the Bishop, expressed its desire to do the same, turning its head to look at him with baleful eyes as he nudged it forward along the mountain path. 

The Bishop himself, it must be said, did not find the journey entirely pleasant. But when the trail widened to reveal the vista ahead, he was struck by the same relief and happiness as many a traveller before him. He got off his mule and let it loose to find its own supper. He then collected wood and made a small campfire, into which he placed a small iron pot. In his pack he kept some herbs, some greens, a bit of dried meat, all the things needed for a stew. This, along with a loaf of bread and a half pound of cheese, was all the food he had left. 

As the stew simmered, the Bishop sat on his blanket, stirring the pot, watching the streaks of pink and orange painted on the mountains by the setting sun. His thoughts were mostly occupied by his visit to the shepherds, in that easy, faraway manner in which we often mull over pleasant future prospects. He therefore did not hear the sounds of approaching footsteps, and it was not until a sudden shadow blocked the last ray of the sun from his view that he looked up at the man standing there.

He was of medium height, slender and sinewy of build, dressed in the simple manner of a mountain peasant or shepherd. His face, although mostly hidden in the shadow of the sunset behind him, was rather narrow and long. In his belt there was a large dagger, and a satchel was slung over his shoulder. 

"I know who you are," he said. His speech was that of a bourgeois townsman, with no trace of the local dialect. "You are the one they call Monseigneur Bienvenu, the new bishop."

"That is right," the Bishop said, stirring the pot. "Sit down, if you like."

The stranger sat down, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Aren't you going to ask who I am?"

"You seem to be a traveller like myself," the Bishop said, "and you must be weary, as I am." He took the ladle in his right hand and extended his other open hand towards the stranger. "Have you a bowl with you?" 

The stranger stared at him for a moment, then chuckled quietly, as if at some private joke. He scrambled around in his pack for a few seconds and produced a small bowl and spoon carved of wood. The Bishop took it and filled it with stew, before helping himself, folding his hands and thanking the Lord for their meal. The stranger was spooning up mouthfuls of stew, shooting him quick, shrewd glances in between. 

They ate in silence, and when they were done, by which time the sun had set completely and the small fire was the only point of light in the vast darkness, the Bishop found his bottle of wine and filled their cups. 

The stranger stretched out beside the fire, resting his back against a larger stone and cradling his pewter cup in long-fingered hands. In the dim light, the Bishop could see that he had a scar running down his neck, half-way hidden by matted dark hair. There was a certain bitterness to his mouth, and his eyes seemed always to be looking sideways, calculating and aloof. 

"You are travelling alone," he said. "Is that not right?"

"Indeed I am," the Bishop answered. 

"And you are not afraid of being robbed?"

"I have nothing of value."

"That seems hard for me to believe," said the stranger with poorly-hidden scorn. "You are a man of the Church." He paused. "How do you know I am not a highwayman?"

"Why would a highwayman choose to spend his time with an old priest at his campfire?"

"Why, indeed?" The stranger raised his eyebrows. "Even highwaymen can be curious, or bored, or both. Much like a man of the Church might be, when cathedrals and psalms no longer hold his interest, and he finds himself straying from the true path... Though perhaps you are too holy to ever find yourself in such a position."

This last was said with a sneer. The Bishop leaned over to poke at the coals, and remarked, "They say there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent."

"Aye, they do," the stranger snorted. "What would you say, Monseigneur, if I told you I was once a man of the Church, like yourself?"

The Bishop, not naturally given to great shows of surprise, looked up sharply. The stranger grinned, displaying two rows of uneven teeth, the gaps between them black holes in the flickering light from the fire.

"Oh yes," he said. "I was a man of the cloth, or I would have been, if they had not expelled me from the seminary. Listen to my voice! Do I sound like an uneducated man to you? Like one of the shepherds of this region? No, Monseigneur, I was at the seminary in Toulouse, no more than twenty years ago. If you pulled out a book in Latin, this very moment, I could read it. They once told me I had a future. And now I am here, in these desolate mountains, all sacred places barred to me—though now no place is sacred to me—and I had not expected a man of the Church to invite me for supper of any kind." 

He paused. Then all of a sudden, his dagger was in his hand, pointing directly at the Bishop. 

"You claim you have nothing of value," he said, voice quiet and intense. "But you still have your life. I could kill you right now, if I wished. You could not stop me. I'm much younger, and some of my men are nearby, I only have to call for them. Simple idiots, they will do exactly as I wish..." 

He leaned closer, letting the dagger hover only an inch from the Bishop's throat. "Why are you so silent?"

"What do you wish for me to say?" the Bishop said, just as quietly. "You are right: you could kill me on the spot, if you wished. My fighting days are long gone. But I do not think you wish to kill me, or you would have done so already."

The stranger was silent. After a long moment, he sheathed his dagger and sat back down. "Quite so," he muttered. "No, Monseigneur Bienvenu, you are right that I won't kill you tonight. But you are wrong that you have nothing of value."

"I have but my life, and you have already said you will not take it."

"You are wrong." The stranger bared his teeth again. "You also have your honour."

For the first time that night, the Bishop felt a flash of cold fear down his back, for while death held no terror for him, pain was a different matter. He dismissed the feeling before it could appear in his voice or face. "My honour is of no significance. Tell me, what do you need from me?"

"Nothing much," the stranger said, his smile now a broken, half-dead thing. "Simply that we play a game. The winner is allowed one request." 

"And the loser?"

"Must obey."

"And what sort of game do you propose?" 

The stranger brought out a coin. "A simple one. You were my host for tonight, so you will choose. We will flip the coin three times. Pile or face?" 

"Face," said the Bishop. The moment of fear had passed and left, leaving no more trace than the night once the sun has risen. Whatever request the stranger was to make, he would consider it and, if necessary, reject it. In his youth he had been an occasional gambler, but the thrill of those days was long gone and it was with a complacent, patient acceptance he watched the stranger flip the coin. 

"Face," the stranger said. "Well, we will flip three times, as I said." His eyes again darted sideways to the Bishop. In the sparse light, his face held a curious expression, almost apologetic. "Your turn."

The Bishop flipped the coin. This time it was pile. The stranger let out a snort that could have been laughter.

"Now," he said. "If I win, I shall ask you for one thing. What could it be? I have already committed acts of great sacrilege, beyond that which caused my expulsion from the seminary. I have committed every sin possible, I have cursed God; along with my men I even despoiled the cathedral of Embrun. I no longer revere the Church, so why should I revere a man of the Church?"

He paused, looking at the Bishop for a long time. Something in his face seemed to soften, sadden, open up like a snake shedding its worn-out hide, new and vulnerable underneath. 

"No," he said at last, softly. "It is not you who will give me my revenge."

The Bishop handed him the coin, and he flipped it with a quick, almost brutal movement. 

"Your request," he said, looking up. His eyes had a dazed, almost hopeful look to them. "What is it?"

The Bishop reached over and gently loosened his grip on the coin. Then he took the man's hands between his own and held them. "Only this," he said, looking into his eyes, "that you come home."

 

*

 

The story of the returned loot from Embrun has been told elsewhere, as indeed it ought to be, for it is a wondrous tale that serves in a most exemplary manner to show what sort of man the Bishop was. What is not known, however, is the fact that some two weeks after the meeting on the mountain plain, a man knocked on the Bishop's door in Digne, in the middle of the night, refusing to come in or give his name until Madame Magloire had roused and alerted the Bishop himself.

The two men sat in the kitchen that night, talking in hushed voices, as they had done that night in the mountain. At dawn, a few of the townspeople saw a stranger on horseback on the way leading towards the mountains, riding at great speed. Some of them crossed themselves, and one even said, "If that fellow has not the look of a brigand, I am the Emperor's mother."

But what is certain is that there were no reliable stories, from that time on, of the highwayman Cravatte harming innocents. Indeed, noble folk might find themselves inconvenienced from time to time, ladies might be relieved of their jewelry, clergymen of their purses; but despite the wild rumours surrounding these encounters, nobody could point to any loss of life or limbs when questioned. 

The Bishop himself smiled at any rumours. He was aware, as most people are not, of the lines that separate sinner and saint in the eyes of the world, how fine the knife's edge, how unpredictable the coin's fall. It was not his place to judge, but he thought it was his place to welcome, and so his door was always open; he would turn away no man who came to his door late at night. 

Neither would he turn away the gifts that mysteriously were sent him from time to time, 'for the benefit of the poor', for while he did not consider himself to be above reproach in any way, he relied on God alone to judge his transgressions. As for the rest, he rejoiced in repentance, encouraged compassion, and believed no man beyond salvation, and if he was sometimes seen to bring out a small coin and turn it fondly over in his palm, surely that is an eccentricity that can and ought to be forgiven.


End file.
